This book has made me laugh. It's not a compliment.
Every character here is monodimensional and unrealistic, while the story itself is quite ridicolous.
And after the tenth masturbation scene filled with philosophical rubbish and Andre Gide quotes I've felt a big nausea coming up.
There are many novelists who have a kind of obsession for sex and many of them are quite good like Philip Roth and McEwan, but Houellebecq in my opinion is not.